


The Warg King

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, House Blackwood - Freeform, House Stark, Magic, Self-Insert, The Blackfish is a badass, War of the Five Kings, Warging, and so unappreciated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: Robb alleviates Raventree Hall of Lannisters on his way south to Riverrun. Outside its walls, underneath the shadow of the Heart Tree, he meets a strange girl and her pet raven.------A self-insert tale shown from a canon character's perspective.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark & Danaerys Targaryen, Robb Stark & Jon Snow, Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s), Sansa Stark and Oberyn Martell
Comments: 41
Kudos: 369





	1. Act I: The Riverlands

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, the weirwood in Raventree Hall is not dead.

He’s a green boy, unbloodied, uncrowned, and untested, when he meets her. 

She and her brother wait outside the walls of their ancestral home, the colossal weirwood of Raventree Hall casting them all shadow. It’s almost frightening to see a living thing so massive. Looking at it, Robb can almost understand why the Andals hated them so much. That tree owns the earth. Men can call themselves kings and lords all they like. They will die and their corpses will nourish trees like that. 

“It’s nice to see a bit of home,” Smalljon says. 

Brynden Blackwood nods. “My family still follow the old gods. Now more than ever.”

Lord Brynden is a tall young lord with black hair and eyes just as dark. His sister, a girl with pale blonde hair, the same raven eyes, and a hooked nose, waits patiently beside him. Robb can’t help staring. She’s dressed in leathers stained black, which is passing odd, but she’s also got a raven perched on her shoulder. She and the raven stare back with an eerie penetrating gaze. 

“Lord Stark,” Lord Brynden continues, bowing in the saddle. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude. We are prepared for a siege, but with the war and approaching winter it’s best to save our stores for as long as possible.”

“Winter is coming,” Robb agrees, not quite able to resist a smug grin. 

“NIGHT! Night!” The raven caws. 

Everyone turns to the girl and her bird. She cuts it an unamused look. It merely tilts its head to the side in reply. 

“You’ll have to forgive my companion,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly feminine for such a fierce looking girl. “He’s very dramatic.”

“Just like his master,” Brynden Blackwood murmurs. “My lords, Lady Catelyn, this is Lady Lucienne Blackwood. My little sister, the second born of us six. She will be joining my father and brother in Riverrun.”

Robb’s company startles at that. Noble ladies- other than the Mormonts, that is- simply do not run off to war. Not with their father’s permission, especially. She’s dressed for the task and her saddle is laden with traveling essentials. They’ve prepared for this. Robb can’t imagine sending Sansa or Arya off in such a way. 

“Is that a weirwood bow?” Theon asks, his voice incredulous. 

Robb cranes his neck. He can’t see anything around the Umbers. They make their shire stallions look like Dornish mares. 

“Yes. I’ve got the arrows as well, but I’m saving those for the Others.”

The men chuckle. She does not. 

“You any good with that?” Greatjon demands. 

“Well, I couldn’t get a clear shot at any Lannisters, but I felled sixteen of their men.”

“We’re always in need of good archers,” Robb offers. He almost immediately regrets speaking. Those eyes of hers are unbearable. It’s like she’s looking in to his very soul, like she knows him and pities him for it. 

“I’m no Bloodraven, but I suppose I’ll do.”

“Shit. Shit!” The raven agrees. 

At those words, the girl nearly rips the bird from her arm. It squawks once over its wing before ascending into the clear sky. 

“You’ll have to excuse that raven. We’ve been trying to get rid of it for six years,” the Blackwood heir says, watching as the bird diminishes into a black speck. “I have no doubt it’s headed to Riverrun.”

Robb’s brow furrows. He looks the girl over again. He’d figured if there was anyone else like him, they would be on the other side of the Wall or in the Neck. He’d never thought of finding another skinchanger in the Riverlands. Robb nudges at that warm presence in his chest. He feels Grey Wind perk his ears in curiosity, then follow their strange bond. 

“You’re not the only one with a sigil for your companion,” Robb says, just as his direwolf crests the hill. 

Neither Blackwood is surprised, though Lord Brynden reveals a bit of wonder. The Lady’s lips quirk into a half smile. She’s got quite pretty lips, he realizes. They help balance out her wide eyes and wicked nose. 

“And the comet will herald the dragons,” she muses. Almost bitterly, she adds, “What a time to be alive.”

Theon laughs. “I’ll have a kraken before you know it."

Lucienne Blackwood shudders. Her horse kicks at the ground nervously. “I hope not. Do you know squids tear their food apart? Imagine what a kraken the size of that tree could do.”

A deep sense of foreboding curls in Robb’s gut as they all glance up at the tree. Even Theon seems a bit cowed. 

“Oh, this is terrible,” the girl suddenly says. “I’m not usually so droll but I’ve been cooped up in that castle for too long. Forgive me brother, but I must depart before I go mad. I need to feel the wind on my face.”

Her brother squeezes her hand. “Be safe, sister.”

“And you! Don’t let the Brackens bother you too much. I’m off to bully myself into the archers.” 

She bows as much as she can before galloping off to join the column of men. 

“Lord Robb, I thank you again,” Lord Brynden says. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

“Thank you, Lord Brynden.”

Robb’s party stalls long after the Blackwoods leave. 

“An odd bunch,” Eddard Karstark says.

Lady Catelyn cranes her neck to look up at the weirwood tree. “I might worship the Seven, but I know the Old Gods. I’ve felt them watch me in the Godswood. I get the same feeling from that girl and her raven. Keep her close, Robb. She may prove to be a blessing or a curse, but she’s sent from your gods either way.”

* * *

He meets her again in Riverrun, his gut still wrenching from the battle. As Robb follows his uncles through wide, stone passages, he can’t help but notice Lucienne Blackwood scowling at something in an alcove. It’s her raven. 

“Snow,” it says.

“I won’t bring you in if you can’t keep your opinions to yourself,” she warns. 

“Shit! Shit!” It argues.

“Listen here you feathered whoreson. You will-“

“Lord Stark,” a deep voice rumbles.

Both Robb and Lucienne startle. The man approaching can be none other than Lord Tytos Blackwood. He shares the same black eyes, pale skin, and hooked nose as Lady Lucienne. They are near mirror images of each other. Behind him, another lord, this one Robb’s age, lingers curiously. He doesn’t have his father’s nose or height, but he’s got his dark hair and broad shoulders. He must be Lady Lucienne’s younger brother, Lucas. 

Gods, what he would do to have Jon and Father at his side. 

“Hello, Lord Stark,” Lucienne greets, curtsying in her leathers. What a strange girl. 

“Hello again, my lady. It’s an honor to meet you, my lords. My father spoke of you fondly, Lord Blackwood,” Robb says. 

It’s not entirely a lie. Eddard Stark hardly spoke of the wars, but when he did, he mentioned Lord Tytos with respect. If Lord Tytos suspects the truth, he is kind enough to not show it. 

“Your father was a good man. I would have volunteered even if the Riverlands were not threatened.”

Robb sighs. “To me, he was just Father. He was never the man that I’ve learned so much about on this journey.”

“I disagree, Lord Robb,” Lady Lucienne says. The raven flies from its window to her shoulder as she steps closer. “He rode across the continent for his sister. He faced one of the best warriors this continent has ever seen for his sister. I’d wager you saw the truest part of him.”

Robb turns this over in his mind. He thinks of his own sisters. They Lannisters have already murdered his father. What will they do to fierce Arya? To sweet Sansa? Will he ever get them back? Or will he return to Winterfell with nothing more than their bones?

“Lord Stark, the men will be waiting,” Lord Tytos interrupts gently. 

“Of course,” Robb says. 

They take several steps before Robb realizes the girl hasn’t joined them. He looks back to find her watching her father and brother.

“Aren’t you coming?” Robb asks. 

She smiles, revealing the whitest teeth he’s seen on anyone besides Queen Cersei. 

“There’s no point. I already know what’s going to happen, Your Grace.”

“King! King!” The raven croaks. 

A chill run downs Robb’s spine. He can’t look away, even after she’s disappeared down the corridor. 

* * *

  
Over the next sennight, Robb is too dazed, too overwhelmed to do anything other than eat and sleep and fight and plan and plan and plan. War is nothing but planning. Planning battles, planning marriages, planning camps, planning journeys. Then he wakes to a red comet blazing across the clear blue sky and he knows all of his plans are going to change. 

Robb finds her in the Godswood that very night. She’s in an oak tree of all places, staring up at the red comet amongst the stars. She’s not beautiful. To call her such would be an insult. She’s striking. She seems one with the wilderness, like it was she that called the flora and fauna from the earth. 

Robb leans against her tree. He has to fight the urge to reach up and wrap his hand around her thigh, to feel if her body is as hard and muscled as he thinks it is. He saw her with that bow in the Battle for Riverrun. It takes strength to wield such a longbow, especially throughout an entire battle. 

“I thought you were a skinchanger,” he says. “You’re more than that, aren’t you?”

“I am many things, just as you.” She sounds amused. 

Robb is the eldest of six. He knows when someone is skirting around an answer. He also has the patience to get a straight one. 

“You’re something,” he says, looking up at the night sky. “You’ve been right by two counts thus far: a king and a comet.”

“I’m a skinchanger,” she admits. “And a greenseer. It’s been in my family for generations. Do you remember Bloodraven?”

“A thousand eyes and one,” Robb murmurs. 

“He was half a dragon. His gifts were a bit exaggerated, to say the least. Magic runs as deep in that family as it does yours.”

Robb thinks about what she said the first time they met, about the comet and Danaerys Targaryen. “So a greenseer sees the future? Is that it?”

There’s a rustling of leaves and leather and she’s suddenly on the ground with him. She holds his gaze with her own terrible one. She always makes him feel so guilty, so unworthy. 

“You will hate me, Robb Stark. You will curse the day you met me.” 

Robb jumps when something touches his foot. A thick snake, as dark as the shadows it came from, curls around his calf. He tries to kick it off, but it just hisses. It’s scales shine in the moonlight as the muscles underneath bunch and relax, bunch and relax. It’s darting tongue gets closer and closer with each movement.

  
“The raven isn’t yours,” he realizes, his mind whirring.

Tentatively, he reaches down to the snake, allowing its cool body to slither against his hands. He raises it high to let it look him in the eye and test his scent. It hisses softly, slithering up his arm to curl around his shoulders. Lucienne scowls at the both of them. 

“An admirable attempt at intimidation, my lady,” he says with a smirk. “It might work on one of your southern fools, but I’m of the North. I’m the King of the North. I know a venomous snake when I see one. She’s impressive, but she’s no match for a direwolf.”

Lady Lucienne shoots him one last glower before stomping off into the trees. Robb tries to be a gentlemen, he truly does, but he can’t resist watching her walk away. 

* * *

Robb doesn’t see much of Lucienne Blackwood after that. He’s a king now and kings have duties. He has a war to win. He can’t shirk his duties to satisfy his curiosities. His lusts. He becomes fast friends with Lucas, however, so he does manage a few questions. Not that he’s given any answers. Lucas Blackwood is very good at talking without saying anything when it comes to his sister. Which is fair enough. Sansa became entangled with a king and look where that got her. 

Lucienne Blackwood sees plenty of him, however. There is always a raven or two present wherever he holds council. Only Robb, Lord Tytos, and Roose Bolton ever notice. So when she suddenly bursts into his pavilion one morning, it is only the three of them who are not surprised. She does not bother with courtesies or preamble. She only strides up to Robb with that ridiculous, foul-mouthed bird on her shoulder and demands a private audience. 

Theon doesn’t snicker, but his restraint is evident for all to see. Several of the men shift on their feet. Robb knows what must happen here. Her father understands; he does not move from his spot against the tent’s wall. She must prove herself. It is one thing to for the lords to respect her archery, and another for them to respect her person. 

“Anything you can ask of me, you can ask in front of my men,” he declares. 

“I do not ask anything of you,” she says. Then, wincing, she remembers to add, “Your Grace.”

“I love a demanding woman,” Theon sighs wistfully. 

Lady Lucienne finally turns her raven gaze onto the Greyjoy heir. Robb almost feels sorry for him.

“You didn’t love it when I had an arrow shoved against your neck two days ago. This is my second warning, Theon Greyjoy. Leave me be or I will ask the ravens to peck out your eyes. I will not give you a third.”

Theon pales and reddens in the same moment. Lord Tytos finally stalks across the pavilion. Robb’s chest tightens. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected blood to be shed. Before he can intervene, her raven caws. Then another. And another. They swoop through the flap to settle on the chairs and tables. More join until almost ten birds are glaring at Theon with beady eyes. 

“REEK! REEK!” The first one screeches. 

“Snow.”

“Reek!”

“Snow!”

Theon gapes, wide eyed at the torrent of cries. The men swallow uneasily, some of them reaching for their blades. 

“Enough!” Robb shouts. 

The ravens cease their racket immediately. Unnaturally quick. Robb fights back a shudder, trying his best to ignore his men’s fearful stares. 

“I’ll not allow you to disrespect Lady Blackwood, Theon. It seems the Old Gods will not either. Everyone leave us. That includes you, Lord Tytos.” 

All of them rush to obey. 

“Wait. My council remains. And you, Mother.”

He watches carefully as Lord Tytos nods at his daughter before striding out with the other lords. He is on the hunt for a kraken no doubt. Robb hopes Theon is smart enough to make himself absent for a few hours. 

Robb and his council take their seats around the round map table: Maege, Greatjon, Roose Bolton, and the Blackfish. Lady Lucienne eyes them all with suspicion, but pulls out a chair across from Robb nonetheless. The raven hops from her shoulder to the chair’s back. 

“These are my advisors, Lady Lucienne. I have an idea of what you mean to tell me and I can not act without consulting them.”

She purses her lips, eyes darting to Roose Bolton before settling on Robb.

“Where is Grey Wind?” She asks accusatorially. 

He raises a brow. “Where is your snake?”

“She’s watching a spy, if you must know.”

Uncle Brynden crosses his arms. “We cannot advise if we do not understand. Stop speaking in riddles or let us leave. There are other things that require my attention.”

“The girl is a skinchanger,” Roose Bolton says in his soft voice. “I though it was the ravens but our king has discovered a secret. A snake, you say? Fitting.”

“That’s not the only secret I’ve discovered. She’s a greenseer, Lord Bolton. Apparently it runs in the family.”

Bolton inhales sharply. He edges away from the girl as if he’d announced she carries greyscale. 

“Snow,” the bird croaks quietly. “Snow, Snow.”

“What is a greenseer?” Mother asks cautiously.

It is Lord Bolton that answers in that soft way of his, surprising everyone. “It is a gift, or perhaps a curse, passed down from the Children of the Forest. As Children, greenseers created the Heart Trees and sent beasts after men. They weaved the songs of the earth to do great and terrible things. It was they who flooded the Neck, for example. Humans, however, are not capable of such magic. Our greenseers are skinchangers, yes, but they also share a connection with Heart Trees that none of us can understand.”

The advisors all look from her to the ravens and back again. Robb hadn’t expected them to be so hostile, so fearful. What will they say about him when they put the pieces together?

“I won’t tell this many people. I refuse,” Lady Lucienne says.

“I am your King,” Robb argues, a bit of steel in his voice. 

The raven reaches over to peck at her ash blonde hair. 

“Fine,” she spits. “On your own head be it.” 

Lady Lucienne throws her shoulders back and tilts her chin up. 

“You were going to send Theon Greyjoy to treat with his father but he betrays you and sacks Winterfell to prove himself to be a true reaver.”

Scalding fury sloshes around in his chest, burning his cheeks and warming his blood.

“Theon is my brother.”

“He was your father’s hostage.”

“He is my brother! He was raised-“

“He was raised knowing that Ned Stark could hack off his head at a moment’s notice,” she cuts in harshly.

He shoves back from the desk. How dare she interrupt her king? How dare she pretend to know his father? He balls his fists on the table and leans over to glare at her. 

“Be very careful of what you say about my family,” he says lowly, dangerously. 

Her eyes shift down to the maps strewn about, sending his heart into a flurry of victory. She recovers quickly though, her pale cheeks flushing a deep pink. 

“You have another brother, a better one. One that loves you and Ned Stark more than Theon ever could.”

“Snow,” a raven croaks. 

Maege startles, giving the bird beside her a wide-eyed look. 

“You can’t mean the bastard,” Mother cries. 

“Snow! SNOW!”

Lady Lucienne eyes her coldly. “Jon Snow is a better person than you or I could ever hope to be. He-“

“Snow! SNOW! SNOW!”

“Enough!” Uncle Brynden orders. “You will not speak to my-“

“Snow! King! KING!”

“If she knew the truth-”

“My husband’s bastard is finally-“

“KING SNOW! KING SNOW! KING SNOW!”

“He isn’t even-“

“SILENCE!” Robb thunders. 

The maddening cacophony dies abruptly. Maege is the only one at ease. She sits back with her arms crossed, smiling at Robb with amusement and pride. Her daughters are technically bastards, he supposes, so she probably cares less about Jon’s status than Robb. 

Beside her, Bolton squints at the raven, then at the girl. Robb sees the moment he decides on something, or perhaps pieces it together.

“Call your brother from the Wall, Your Grace. Do it now. Offer fifty men. Offer a hundred. But do it now.”

“Why?” Greatjon asks. “What’s going on inside that twisted head of yours?”

Gods save them all, Roose Bolton smiles. Actually smiles. 

“I underestimated Eddard Stark. The realm underestimated Eddard Stark. Jon Snow isn’t your brother. I’d wager his name isn’t Jon Snow at all. He’s a Targaryen.”

“KING! KING!” The raven squawks. “KING!”

Bolton smirks and nods at the raven. “Look. They know. The Gods know who he is. He can turn the tides of this war, Your Grace.”  
  
Robb’s gaze snaps to Lady Lucienne. He sees the truth in her heavy eyes, in the great heave of her shoulders. Mother does too. She cries out and slumps in her chair. Her uncle lunges over to catch her by the arm, asking her something under his breath. The room is terribly quiet as they shuffle except for the rustling of the ravens’ wings and the patter of their skinny feet.

“I was going to name him my heir,” Robb says, his stomach dropping. All of those plans, all of those sleepless nights, were for nothing. “I was going to legitimize him as a Stark.”

Lady Lucienne scowls. “I told you we should speak alone.”

“Why not legitimize him as a Targaryen, instead? Name him regent for Bran?” Maege asks. 

Robb sighs. Just considering the political implications made his head ache. 

“Send for him either way,” Lady Lucienne insists. “The Watch is desperate for men. They’ll let him go if you send enough to replace him. They’d probably demand it with enough of them. Send for Jon Snow. He will come. I know he will.”

Robb runs a hand down his face. He’s so tired. He can’t remember the last time he slept properly. Even at night, even as Grey Wind, his thoughts are a unending storm. 

“Very well,” he concedes. “I trust you to draw the papers up, Lord Bolton.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“What about Greyjoy?” Lady Lucienne snaps. 

Robb glares at her. He isn’t terribly concerned with propriety, but he’s a bloody king. There is only so much he can overlook. She cannot make such demands, in such a tone of voice, and not at least tack on a ‘Your Grace’ at the end. 

“Who am I?” He asks. 

“Robb Stark.”

“And what am I?” 

She blanches, eyes flashing to his crown, when she realizes his intent. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I do not...” She sighs heavily and suddenly, she is only a girl not much older than him. “It’s exhausting. It all gets jumbled up. What has happened, what is happening, what’s supposed to happen. I have to spend so much energy sorting it all out, and then figuring it all out, that I don’t have the patience for much else. I don’t meant to be disrespectful. I’m just tired and angry and...tired.”

Robb studies her for a moment. He has the weight of the North on his shoulders. She carries the weight of the Old Gods. Perhaps he is too harsh on her. It is not honorable to punish the messenger. It is not her fault that she must deliver hard truths. Father would be ashamed. 

“Your apology is accepted but I insist that you take greater care in the future.”

Lady Lucienne stands and curtsies in her leathers, a strange amalgamation of Sansa and Arya. 

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll work on it.”

She tries to leave, but Robb motions for her to sit back down. He can practically hear her cursing in his mind. Robb sighs. He takes off his crown, ruffles his curls, and gestures for them to get on with it. It’s going to be a long day. 

They argue throughout the day and well into the night. Lucy, as she demanded to be called, is selective in what she reveals. The Gods even more so. Several times, her raven reached over to peck hard at her scalp or caw out some obscenity. Robb began to better understand her frustration when they started pecking at him when he became to persistent for their liking. Even Roose Bolton was not excluded from their scorn, though settled for screeching nonsense in his direction. 

In the end, it is decided that Theon will stay at Robb’s side. Tytos Blackwood leaves for Pyke at first light in an attempt to convince Balon Greyjoy to raid the Westerlands. Mother was supposed to have gone to treat with Lord Renly, but Robb has decided to send her on a different diplomatic mission. One to the east.

He will truly be alone if Jon does not answer his call. 

* * *

  
Bolton spies on her after that fateful meeting. Even the Umbers assign someone to trail her. Robb is the only one that manages to catch her at something. 

It happens completely by accident. He’s teaching himself to warg. He could ask Lucy but there’s no fun in that. Grey Wind is his closest friend, something more than even a brother. Losing Grey Wind would be like losing a part of himself. This is for them alone. 

On one such occasion, he catches Lucy’s scent. It’s off. She’s on edge like his men before battle. He orders his companion to trail her and pulls himself back into his own body. Robb hurriedly shoves his hair under a knitted cap and trades tops with Lucas. It makes his skin crawl to use a brother’s things to spy on his sister, but there’s nothing to do for it. 

Honor will get you killed, Lucy is fond of telling him. 

Robb adopts a different gait. Wider stance, a slight limp, borrowed blade on right hip. No one spares him a glance. It is too dark and his men are too drunk to notice anything awry. Idly, Robb wonders if he should increase patrols. 

She’s gone to the healing tents, back behind them where the healers sleep. Robb immediately knows something is wrong. This is not Lucy. She is rude and vulgar and sometimes cruel, but she is not so dishonorable. It is a rule of war that maesters and their assistants are not to be harmed. 

He creeps forward, stepping exactly where Grey Wind steps. They come to a halt outside a small tent. Inside, a fleshy thud and a muffled scream sounds. 

“What is your name?” Lucy demands.

“T-t-Tali-“ A sudden bought of choking overtakes her reply. It lasts so long that even Grey Wind is startled by a sudden desperate gasp of breath. 

“Your name.”

“I-I I t-told you.” 

Another thud, another cry. 

“Your. Name.”

“Please. Please. He’ll kill my family!”

“You think I give a fuck?”

Cold fury spreads through Robb’s chest. A spy. A healer as a spy. He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Tywin fucking Lannister, but the audacity, the utter disregard for the laws of men and gods. The man has no shame, no honor. 

Robb rises from his crouch and steps into the tent. He has to stagger to fit. The pretty nurse he’d argued with only days before is sprawled amongst furs and blankets. One of her eyes are swollen and blood is trickling out of a split on her lip. Her skin, so lovely and dark before, is as grey as his house colors. Lucy’s massive snake is curled around her throat, its tongue flickering to her ear in an almost sensual way. The serpent is so long that most of its body is wrapped around one of her bound arms. 

Lucy herself is straddling the spy, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the hilt of a dagger raised to strike. She freezes when he enters. 

“Your Grace,” she ventures cautiously. 

“King Robb,” the nurse rasps. “Please, Your Gra-“

Robb nods the slightest bit and the snake coils around her neck. Her eyes bulge, her arms convulse, and she gurgles and chokes as her nails clawing into her cot. The snake uncoils at the last minute with a menacing hiss. 

“What is your name?” Lucy repeats. 

“J-joy. J-joy L-lannett.”

“Joy Lannett?”

Some of the fight goes out of her as she nods. 

“ Lannett of Lannisport?” Robb clarifies. 

Fresh tears well up in her good eye as she nods again. 

“What were your orders?” Lucy asks softly. “Was it to seduce Robb?”

Robb curses harshly when she croaks out a terrified yes. Lucy, however, is not surprised. She whispers something into her ear just as the snake licks the other one. Joy Lannett ahudders and cries anew. 

“N-no. I-I ssswear it.”

“Fuck,” Lucy curses, wiping her brow on her forearm. “I really didn’t want to have to kill her too.”

Before Robb can say anything, before he can even realize what’s happening, the snake squeezes, cutting off all sound, and the dagger is planted in her swollen eye. She dies ungracefully. Pitifully. 

Robb is too furious to control himself. He grabs Lucy by the braid and pulls her off the corpse. The snake hisses and untangles itself far quicker than anything it’s size should be able to. It rears it’s head back, fangs bared, and stops abruptly. Grey Wind growls deep in his throat and pokes his head inside, but Robb tugs one their bond to reassure him. 

He pulls on the wad of blonde hair in his fist, bending her neck back to meet his gaze. 

“I did not give you leave to kill her,” he snarls. 

“And what would you have done?” She hisses. “Give her a trial? Execute her in front of all your men.”

“It is the-“

“It would be a fucking disaster! Who can your men trust if not the healers? How will they trust one another?”

“I-“

“Think, Robb! Think it through!”

Slowly, rationality floods through his anger. He works it through in his mind. She’s right. He doesn’t want her to be right, but she is. The only thing to do would have been to kill her and dispose of her body. Distribute her things amongst the other supplies. No one will notice a missing nurse, even one as pretty as she was. 

Robb releases her hair, taking a tentative step back. The snake slithers into her lap, curling around her torso to rub at her cheek. It occurs to him then, what she has just done. She has murdered someone to protect him. Tortured them, killed them, and would have covered it all up without anyone the wiser. 

“Luce...

“Don’t,” she snaps, her voice wavering the slightest bit. “Don’t or I’ll never get through it.”

Her hands are shaking and her eyes have a wild glaze to him. She wipes her bloody hands on a nearby fur and begins to climb to her feet. Robb hurries to help her stand. Lucy takes a deep, shuddering breath and clenches her fists. She seems to come back to herself with each breath she takes. 

“You need to go, Your Grace,” she finally says. “You cannot he seen here.”

“No.”

“Robb-“

“No,” he says, squeezing her arm. He offers her a weak smile. “Don’t make me use my king’s voice.”

She’s too wound up find him amusing. She only nods curtly and starts rummaging through the furs. They work in silence. Robb doesn’t know what to say or if he should say anything. He’s never killed someone out of battle, never had to think and decide to take a man’s life. And Lucy did it for him.

They use a sheet to carry her body deep into the woods. They strip of her clothing and leave her to the wolves and the mountain lions. After, they slink back through the maze of tents and workshops. The men are still dancing and laughing and singing, going as if nothing had happened. 

They pause when they reach the smithy. She camps with her archers, the dozen of men and women who have begun to call themselves the Raven’s Teeth. Robb reaches for her hand, the one still stained red with blood, and kisses it as reverently as he can. She won’t look him in the eye when he lowers it, nor when she curtsies in farewell. 

He tells the council that next morning. Bolton keeps his spies, Robb keeps an eye out, but it is not out of suspicion. For Bolton it is greed and for Robb it is something he does not want to admit to himself. 

* * *

  
Robb is no fool. It is impossible for him to take Casterly Rock. Without a dragon, anyway. A siege would last years that he doesn’t have. It’s only been taken once and that was with trickery. He might be able to do that. Maybe. It isn’t worth the risk. 

What Robb can do is give Tywin Lannister hell. He is going to conquer as much as the Westerlands as he can, steal its wealth and its food and send it all back home for winter. Winter is coming, they’ll whisper. Do you hear the wolves howling?

Robb can’t do any of it without Oxcross. Oxcross is his way into the western mountains. It is also nearly impossible to take with only one heavily guarded road in and the rest surrounded by woods and mountains full of wolves and bears and mountain lions. 

Funny thing, really, that Robb has his own direwolf. 

They find a trail while stalking a goat. It’s quick work after that. 

Days later, his lieutenants and captains are huddled around a map in the forest. It is not yet dark, but the heavy greenery blocks out the scarce light. Lucy is there to represent her elite archers, who’s numbers have grown to nearly fifty. He’s seen them do their odd group exercises in camp. She says they are activities meant to encourage teamwork and perfect synchronization. It’s useful for what she hopes to accomplish, but it would be a waste of time for the army at large. Still impressive to watch, though. 

“Thirty men will cut the horses at the same time I send Grey Wind in. It will be chaos,” Robb says. “The rest of us will attack through the trees. Lady Lucienne will lead the Raven’s Teeth north of the village, where they will pick off any stragglers.”

She murmurs something to one of her men. He promptly disappears into the trees. 

“Aye, but how can we be sure?” A Bolton man asks. Probably a spy left behind by Lord Roose, but Robb doesn’t mind much. Frankly, he’d be disappointed if there weren’t Bolton spies in his camp. “It could be a ruse for our scouts and we’re fucked if it is.”

“I am confident that Ser Stefford is clueless.”

They eye him doubtfully yet remain silent. It’s part of being a soldier Robb is thankful he never had to learn. To put the lives of his men at the mercy of someone else’s secrets would be a terrible thing. 

“Can’t she check for us?” A Frey asks. “Do some of her northern magic?”

“I’m a fucking Blackwood, you dolt,” Lucy snaps. 

Uncle Brynden snorts. 

“Ser, I assure you-“

“Oh, fuck it,” she sighs. 

She stomps forward, shoves her longbow at Robb, and practically throws herself at his feet. Without warning, her eyes roll back in her head and glow a milky white. The men gasp. One cries out in dismay. The Frey soldier whispers a prayer. 

Robb’s eyes don’t do that. They glaze over as if he’s staring out into nothing, rather like Sansa losing herself to another one of her fantasies. The first time he’d seen himself through Grey Wind’s eyes, he’d startled himself back into his own body. 

Lucy, however, isn’t just a skinchanger. She is a greenseer, slipping into the mind of a creature that is not her own. She refuses to explain how that is possible, no matter how many times he asks. She’s warned him to never try to possess one of her birds in case the Old Gods decide not to share. That had rankled. He’s the King in the North. If anyone is going to share anything with the Gods, it should be him. Every time he thinks about trying, however, one of the damn birds starts pecking or screaming “shit!”. 

Finally, after several minutes, Lucy blinks herself back into reality just as a raven settles itself onto an oak tree. Robb holds out his hand to pull her to her feet.   
“They’re just tapped the barrels of ale and the cooks have just set out the pots. They’ll be full and drunk when we attack.”

The Northern lords are silent. Their faces both grim and impressed as they appraise her, their eyes flickering from her pale braid to her worn boots. Robb clamps down on the urge to snap at them, to shove her behind him. Instead, he is forced to hand her weirwood bow back with a blank expression. 

“Are there any other concerns? Or shall we go slaughter the lions in their den?”

“Your Grace?” Lord Karstark ventures carefully. Robb bites down on his tongue to fight off his anxiety. He knows what he’s going to ask. It’s been a long time coming. “You said Grey Wind found the goat track.”

“I did.”

Lucy startles at his side, peering over at him with wide, dark eyes. 

Lord Karstark licks his lips. “Are you like the Lady Lucy?”

“I am not a greenseer, Lord Rickard.”

“But you’re something.”

“Does it bother you?”

Lord Rickard mulls it over. Robb can see the moment he decides, the moment that could very well change the course of his regency. 

“Not so long as it keeps winning us the war, it doesn’t.”

Robb lets a wild, wolfish grin spread across his face. The Frey shivers. 

“Then lets go kill some Lannisters.”

They call him the Warg King after. They boast of it and sing of it even while watching him warily. He can smell their fear. He can taste it. Uncle Brynden is not immune. His blue eyes, Tully eyes, linger on Grey Wind when they are together.

Lucy Blackwood is the only one who understands. She sits beside him and lets him rant and rage while she sips on her ale. He tells her things he cannot tell anyone else. He whispers his greatest fears and darkest desires to her under the cover of the stars. 

She carefully sits her tankard down and turns to face him. He instantly recoils. He doesn’t like her expression, the solemnity on her features. It does not suit her. She is lively and fierce and never so dire. 

“Robb, I’ve got to tell you something. Something I’ve been keeping from you.”

“What is it?”

“Your wolves, these gifts, they weren’t given to you for the Lannisters. Just as the Wall wasn’t raised for the wildlings.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I...Robb, you’re going to think I’m mad.”

“ROBB!” Someone screams. “ROBB! Robb, it’s you!”

He’s thrown to the ground by a stinking bundle of old clothes and dark hair. He frowns down at the boy atop him, shoving him away to see who would be mad enough...

“Arya?” He whispers, tears blurring his vision. “Arya is that really you?”

“Yes, stupid! And Jon. Look, the ravens led me to Jon!”

Behind her, Jon Snow stands with Ghost looming over his shoulder. 

“Your Grace,” he murmurs, lowering his head respectfully. 

“Jon!” Robb cries. “Jon, get over here you bloody idiot.”

A slow, wide smile spreads across Jon’s face and he’s suddenly gathered in his arms. After a sold half hour of hugs and tears and teasing, the three of them finally break apart. It’s only then that Robb remembers something Arya said. 

“You said the ravens led you here?” He asks. 

“Yeah! Gendry said I was stupid at first but then there were more and we kept managing to get to places where somebody had just camped or fought and then the next thing I know Jon’s there with his friends.”

“It was Ghost,” Jon explains “Ghost led...Robb? Is all well?”

Robb takes a deep breath and forces a smile. First the Lennett girl and now this? What else has she been doing for him? What more could he possibly owe her?

“You’re here, aren’t you? It can’t get any better than that.”


	2. Act II: The Westerlands, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual assault. “It’s all so wrong” to “Robb awakes to a sharp beak pecking between his eyes. ” I haven’t seen anyone take that stance so I thought I’d explore it. 
> 
> Also, I messed with the timeline just a little bit. The whole fiasco with Edmure and the Mountain has been pushed back to occur after Robb takes the Crag. He was probably having too much fun torturing peasants. 
> 
> This was supposed to be one chapter, but it just kept going.

Robb is beginning to think the burden of being the eldest brother is a heavier one than that of being king. He is the one who must tell Jon of his parentage. He is the one who must watch Jon’s face shift from disbelief to anger to grief. He is the one to watch him cry and rage and storm out into the trees. 

Robb sends a few guards to follow him. This is not the North, no matter how much they wish it was. Robb just wants to go home. He’s sick of lions. Even the door handles in Oxcross, a fucking defensive keep, are gilded lions. They plague him at every turn, much like Arya once did. 

Arya is not the annoying little girl that she was. She is taller and quieter and even more clever. She’s also a killer. They turned his baby sister is a killer. He can see the cold spark in her eyes, how she carefully hedges around some of his questions. When he tells her that he will always love her, no matter what, she crumples and tells him everything. 

(Robb wants to throttle her for not giving Tywin Lannister’s name to the Faceless Man.) 

Two recruits named Grenn and Pyp came from the Wall with Jon. There’s nothing particularly notable about them except for their unwavering loyalty. It’s not strictly legal, but any naysayers take one look at Ghost, who has grown even larger than Grey Wind, and their complaints die on their tongues. It helps that the odd trio made a pact to join the Watch after the war’s won. Not that Robb is going to let that happen. He’s lost Jon once already. He won’t do it again. 

Arya came with her own friends. The young ones, Lommy and Hot Pie, are sent to Riverrun on the first shipment of loot. The smith’s apprentice agrees to stay for a bit. He easily inserts himself into Jon’s circle when he isn’t in the smithy. 

Arya bounces between her brothers, Dacey Mormont, and the Raven’s Teeth. Lucy and Dacey are quick to plan out a training regimen. She joins the Raven’s Teeth in the early mornings to build discipline and strength. Dacey and the rest of Robb’s honor guard give her fighting lessons in the afternoons.

One such afternoon, Robb is watching Jon spar with Uncle Brynden, another plan forming in his mind, when Lucy barrels into the yard. Her chest is heaving, her braid is coming loose, and her full lips are pulled back into a beaming smile. Everyone immediately stops their brawling. Jon, the poor soul, looks around with a confused expression. He’s heard the stories about Lucienne, but he has yet to experience one of her storms. 

“Your Grace! Your Grace! I’ve news of my father.”

Theon steps forward eagerly. He knows better than to speak up. Lucy and Theon tend to ignore one another as much as possible except for when he decides to join in on an archery drill. If they are forced to interact, it is a painfully awkward experience for all parties. 

“I’ve news of my father. The Iron Victory will sail from Pyke at dawn.”

Silence reigns. No one dares to speak. Robb’s heart is pounding in his throat, creating a rushing noise in his ears. 

“The Ironborn are with us?” He hears Lord Glover ask.

“Victarion Greyjoy does not act against his brother,” Uncle Brynden declares, a bright gleam in his eyes. 

Lucas Blackwood rushes forward and sweeps his sister off his feet, swinging her around in a circle. A few of the other lords begin to cheer and clap. Robb, however, is frozen. He cannot speak. He cannot move. 

“But how do you know?” Jon asks. 

Lucy shrugs. It might seem careless, but Robb notices how her smile dims infinitesimally, how her fingers dig into her brother’s arm. 

“A raven, of course,” she drawls. 

“I await your father’s word,” Robb says formally, calmly. It takes every bit of self control he has. Inside, he’s bursting with wild ecstasy, a feral howl building in his chest. He turns to Uncle Brynden. “Spread the word. We move at first light, at double time. I want to be at the Crag in three days and my banners flying the next morning.”

Uncle Brynden’s grins his terrifying Blackfish grin. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“Jon, Lucy, with me.”

He leads them into the armory pavilion and signals Grey Wind to ward off any eavesdroppers. A massive, furry silhouette reveals that Ghost has taken up the call as well. 

Robb rounds on Lucy. He’s too over-stimulated to block Grey Wind out completely. She throws her shoulders back in defiance but her pretty pale throat bobs as she gulps. Anxiety rolls off of her in waves so thick they leave a grimy film on his tongue. 

“What happens at the Crag?” He demands. 

A sharp intake of breath. Another gulp. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re lying,” he accuses, prowling closer. She tries to step back but she knocks into a table laden with axes. “You’ve flinched every time it’s been mentioned since we took Oxcross. You grow more anxious with every league we travel. Something happens.”

Lucy sets her jaw and fixes her stare at a point over his shoulder.

“Lucienne,” he chides, dragging out the syllables of her name. He reaches out and cups her chin. Ever so slowly, he tilts her gaze up to meet his. Fathomless eyes, so dark that he can’t make out the pupil, bore into him. Accusation. Sorrow. Lust. He can smell it on her as clearly as the leather. 

“What happens?” He nearly whispers. 

Something in her changes so suddenly that he jerks back in alarm. Belatedly, foolishly, he remembers that the ravens are not hers. 

There is an old folk tale in the North. One winter’s day, a farmer found a dying copperhead nestled under a tree. It was dying of the cold and the farmer had just lost his mother to winter’s chill, so he took pity on the viper. He nestled it close to his chest and carried it home. He nursed it back to health for three days and three nights. On fourth day, the healthy viper reared back and bit him on the neck. 

‘You knew what I was when you picked me up,’ the snake hissed. 

Those words echo in Robb’s head as she slinks around him, her hair glinting like her bullsnake’s scales might. It is easy to forget all that she is capable of. She’s never used any of it against him. He’s never found a weirwood arrow in his saddlebag or woke to a raven sharing his pillow or felt a snake slither across his legs in the dead of night.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” Her cold gaze flicks to Jon. “Legitimize him. Name him your heir if you want, but it wasn’t death that found you at the Crag. It was your inadequacy.” 

She steps forward on silent feet, brushing against his arm. He has to spin to keep her in sight. 

“What you did was the spark that lit the flame, an inferno of death and betrayal so grand that the North broke so throughly the Gods intervened. And gods have mercy, I’ll do what I must to keep it from happening again.”

Quick as a viper, her hand lunges for the dagger at his hip, but wolves are quick too. He grabs her by the wrist, crushing it hard enough to bruise. He reaches for her other hand and secures the both of them in his left. She struggles against his grip, but he has a point to make. He needs her to understand who he is. Who they are. 

“There is a story from Old Valyria that Bran adores,” he says, reaching up to cup her jaw once more. “Maester Lewin translated it when they told him he was going to Winterfell. It’s about a boy raised by wolves, you see, and he thought one of Lord Stark’s future sons might like it. 

“The boy is raised by wolves, but one day he realizes that he is a man. He must leave his pack to find himself. As he’s stumbling through the great forest, he comes across a powerful serpent. They become one another’s greatest friends and allies. ‘We be of one blood, ye and I’, the boy said, and they were. The serpent taught the boy all that he knew, helped rescue him from his captors, and fought with him to defend his home and his people.”

He squeezes her chin firmly enough that her eyes focus on his.

“This is the second time you’ve attempted to intimidate me and the second time you’ve failed. If you try it again, it can only be because you want to be put in your place and trust me, Lucy, there will be no going back. Do you understand?”

She tries to tear out of his grip, but he only holds her tighter. 

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she hisses. 

He lets her tear out of his hold and unabashedly stares as she stomps away. He calls out when she’s close to the entryway. 

“We’re not done yet.”

She spins around, her cheeks flushed and her eyes aflame. 

“I brought you here to advise us.” He turns to Jon, who looks as though he would rather be anywhere else. “I am legitimizing you, but whether you are my heir or Bran’s regent is up to you. What will it be, Jon? Targaryen or Stark?”

“I’ve only ever wanted to be a Stark,” Jon says. Sorrow and guilt break through Robb’s wild excitement, sobering him quickly. “I only ever wanted Winterfell. Not for the power or the prestige, but to belong.”

Jon takes a deep breath and stands tall. “Winterfell will always be my home, but it is not my place. I need to find my own place in the world and I believe that I can do that better as a Targaryen. I can be my own man, build up my own name, whether it’s in the south, on the wall, or in the North.”

Robb frowns. “Don’t think you’re getting out of anything. If I die, you’re my heir in all but name.”

“Don’t be selfish,” Lucy snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. To Jon, she says, “If you’re happy, that’s all that matters. And I think Lord Stark would agree with me.” 

“Thank you.”

“Just don’t tell anyone.”

Jon’s dark brows furrow in bewilderment. “What?!”

“It might be useful later. People are terrified of Targaryens. Now, there’s you. Your Stark ancestors ruled in Westeros for ten thousand years and we all know what Aegon did with his dragons. I know you don’t want the Throne right now. Maybe you never will and that’s okay. Do what makes you happy. But Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell don’t need to know that.”

“That’s lying.”

“Honor will get you killed,” Robb interjects. “This is war, Jon. Tywin Lannister disguised a Lannisport girl as a healer and sent her to seduce me. We’ll never win if we assume everyone is even half as honorable as Father was.”

”Seven hells,” Jon murmurs, running a hand over his beard. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Lucy says again. “His Excellency can say you’re legitimized and everyone will assume it’s as a Stark.”

“His Excellency,” Robb repeats, amused. He’s truly angered her this time. 

“Very well,” Jon sighs. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Lucy nods, then turns and curtsies to Robb. “With your permission, Your Majesty.”

Robb grins. “Permission granted.”

When she’s gone, Robb throws an arm over Jon’s shoulders.

“You’re my brother no matter what your name is,” Robb says. 

“Aye,” Jon agrees, and that is that. 

Robb misses the solemn look he casts at the tent’s opening. 

* * *

They take the Crag. He knows that much. He can remember it, maybe. His men roared with victory and there was a sudden, sharp pain in his chest. He looked down to find a long, thin arrow buried deep just below his neck. He thinks he remembers a woman’s snarl, the twang of a bow, and a white streak flying before he fell, but the last part may be a dream. It could all have been a dream. All he can do is dream. 

He wakes several times, or so he thinks, but the poppy is quick to claim him again. Arya looms over him, then Jon, their faces blending together into Aunt Lyanna. There are soft hands and rough voices. Bright blue eyes. Some that are Tully and some that are other. The shadow of a great weirwood tree that darkens into his sick room, where a pretty girl with heavy curls cleans his wound. Her hands are soft and warm, so soft, as they ghost over the hair on his chest. Her fingers shake and tremble as they trail down the ridges of his abdomen hastily. 

It’s all wrong. So wrong. 

Lucy’s hands are rough and calloused, strong and steady, and she does not smell so sweet. 

“She smells of woodsmoke, not flowers,” Father says, frowning down at the two of them. 

Robb tries to move, tries to push her away, but he can’t move. Her hands, her soft, trembling hands, dip under the smothering furs, tangle in the laces of his trousers. 

Why is she going so fast? Robb’s seen the way she looks at him in the yard. He’s felt her eyes sear onto every inch of his skin, felt the heat of them as they caress every ridge of muscle. She should savor this. He’s imagined her savoring this. 

He tries to reach for her, but his arm is heavy against his side and his limbs are asleep and drowning. 

Still she keeps fumbling until he feels the soft brush of the furs against his cock. It is then that he knows, with absolute certainty, that this is not Lucy. She has nearly seventy men under her command. She eats with them, sleeps with them, fights with them. If she ever feared a man’s nakedness, that silliness left her when the war began. 

Robb may not be able to move, but Grey Wind can. 

Grey Wind is locked away in a stable. The audacity that would lock his direwolf up like a common dog sends a fresh rush of fury through him. Grey Wind snarls and crashes against the door, causing it to rattle against the hinges. He tries again and again, but the door holds fast. 

The scent of fear and flesh waft in and he pauses, ears twitching back to better hear. 

“It’s at it again,” one man says. 

Another one curses. “Maybe their witch can do somethin’?”

“Fuck no! Gives me the creeps, that one. And she’s the one who keeps sayin’ to let it out.”

“Maybe we should. Maybe-“

“We spilled Robb Stark’s blood. That wolf will want ours.”

Grey Wind howls, long and loud and deep, at the thought of their sweet, metallic blood flooding his mouth and dripping from his maw. He hears one of the men swallow and the other curse heavily. 

A raven caws and the men stumble over one another in fear, whimpering about witches and omens. Grey Wind tilts his head back. There, in the rafters, one of his Gods’ sleek birds peers down at him curiously. The wolf whines. They are trapped, the both of them, nothing more than wolves in cages. The bird caws once more and leaves in a flurry of wings. 

Some part of Grey Wind sighs and relaxes and floats away in the soft sea breeze. 

Robb comes to in his sickbed. The girl’s hand is tentatively squeezing his cock. He pulls on Grey Wind, desperately clutches at his feral strength, but before he can will himself to move, a door slams open, light floods in, and a girl’s death cry bounces off the walls. 

Robb stops fighting. Arya is here. Arya will protect him. 

* * *

Robb awakes to a sharp beak pecking between his eyes. He jolts upright, his hand swatting at the bird out of reflex. It squawks in protest and flutters to the beside table. The room is dark and empty. It sticks of vinegar and stale wine and dirty linen. He has to get out, needs a lungful of cold winter air. 

He sits up on the bed. His body is weak and sluggish, like a bear waking from a long hibernation. His boots, now clean and polished, sit beside a neat stack of clothing. He dresses quickly, wincing at the pain in his arm. He doesn’t bother trying to don a jerkin or tunic. Instead, he ties his arm in a sling and shoves a pulls a loose undershirt on for propiety’s sake. 

Grey Wind is waiting at the door. He whines and licks at Robb’s free hand. 

“I am sorry, friend,” Robb murmurs as he scratches behind his ears. “I will never let them lock you away again. Will you take me to them? So I may tell them so?”

The Crag is even more of a ruin than Moat Cailin. Only the southernmost halls and towers are in good repair. The weathered windows look out over crumbling walls and half-thatched roofs. Beyond that, on the horizon, massive ships rest atop the blue sea. The massive golden kraken dances against the black sails threateningly. He has never seen anything so foreboding. He has never welcomed a sight more. 

The men stop and bow as he passes through the halls. Even the Westerling servants pause to prostrate themselves before a Stark king and his direwolf. Only the Ironborn, when he comes across them stationed outside a tower, do not balk. They watch curiously over their wild beards and round shields. A Stark man bows his head and opens the door. 

The room is bright and airy, a severe contrast to the scene within. On one side, a massive man dressed in black and gold rests against the wall with his arms crossed over his massive chest. Theon and a young woman that looks very much like him lounge on one side. Lord Tytos bows from the other. 

“Well met, Lord Captain,” Robb says. 

He holds out his arm in greeting. Lord Victarion nods as they clasp one another’s arms. 

“King Stark. I trust we’ll meet after you’ve disposed of this filth.”

Robb nods. He turns to the room, fighting against the urge to take a fortifying breath. In the center, three people are tied to chairs: a pale man, an angry woman, and her weeping daughter. Lucy sits in a cha across from them. She only spares him a quick once over before she turns her attention back to the snake draped across the man’s shoulders. 

“It’s about bloody time,” Jon says. 

He, Arya, and their lords are all standing beside the windows, relishing the sea breeze. 

“Did they give you any problems?” Robb asks. 

“Only about the wolves.”

Lord Karstark shifts nervously. 

“Nymeria took off a man’s hand before she fled into the trees with Ghost,” Arya boasts. 

Robb hums as he strides over to them. 

“Imagine my fury, will you, when I woke drugged out of my right mind and a stranger’s hands on my person, yet when I slipped into the mind of my wolf, he was caged in a stable like some worthless hound.”

Under Robb’s accusing gaze, all except for Jon and Arya drop to their knees. Grey Wind pads close to loom over them. 

“I have taught Grey Wind to respect men. We are a dangerous species, even to legendary predators like the direwolf, yet I taught him to be gentle. No more. If anyone other than a Stark, a Tully, or a Blackwood dares touch him, they must be prepared to lose a limb. I will leash him no longer. Do you understand?”

Robb strides over to where Lucy sits. He rests his hand on her head, absentmindedly tracing the bumps of her silken braids as he studies the Westerlings. The daughter is the girl from his room, same chestnut curls and quivering hands. She’s very pretty in a delicate sort of way. Her mother shares her beauty, but none of her bashfulness. She glares at Robb in a way that only a mother can. The man, presumably Lady Westerling’s brother, is too preoccupied by the large black snake around his neck to care for anything else. 

“What are their names?”

“Ser Rolph Spicer, his sister Lady Sybell, and her daughter, Jeyne Westerling.”

“Have they said anything?” He asks. 

“Nothing of consequence.”

He nods. “I’ll need your dagger.”

She looks up at him, dislodging his hand. He has to stop himself from reaching out to trace the high curve of her cheekbone as it falls. 

“Your body is still recovering. If you do this, you’ll take longer to heal and it’ll be longer before you can fight. Your plan is still in motion, as far as we know. We’ll need you for that fight.”

He sighs. He’d forgotten about the Mountain. He’ll have to warn Jon, now that he thinks of it. It’s personal between them now. 

“Very well,” he concedes. 

She rises and stalks forward, unsheathing her dagger all the while. A new dagger would be a nice show of gratitude. Something dark and elegant with her snake, Mittens, as the grip and pommel.

“The sooner your answer our questions, the sooner this can end,” she says, Mittens hissing softly. “Why did you send your niece to King Robb?”

“I didn’t.”

Mittens’ dark body constricts around his throat. His fingers dig into the chair and his eyes widen and bulge. Without a word, the snake relents, but before he can catch his breath, Lucy’s arm swings and the dagger collides with his face. Both of the captive women cry out. 

“Why did you send your niece to King Robb?”

Mittens’ attack is longer and stronger this time, constricting until the lord’s face turns bright red and his choking turns into a gurgle. Lucy’s following blow breaks the skin of his cheek. Grey Wind stirs at the scent of blood. 

“Why did you-“

“It was me, you whore!” Lady Westerling shouts. 

Lucy pauses and turns her raven gaze on the older woman. She shivers in her seat, even while she juts her chin in defiance. 

“Odd that you call Lady Blackwood a whore, yet it was your daughter that had her hand on my cock,” Robb muses. 

Theon snickers softly, though the rest of the room shuffles uneasily as the snake uncoils. She stretches over, her forked tongue darting leisurely, to climb across Lady Sybell’s shoulders. She has grown so long that her tail is still on the brother’s shoulder as she curls around the sister’s neck. 

“Why did you send your daughter to King Robb?”

Mittens strangles her and Lucy hits her. Though the blow is softened, it still brings a dark blemish to her cheek. 

“Why did you send your daughter to King Robb?”

“Because a Lannister pays his debts!” She chokes out, her eyes shining with malevolence. “Because my daughter deserves more than some up-jumped knight!”

Lady Jeyne begins crying pitifully, snot streaming from her nose in long ropes. 

Lucy hums thoughtfully as she flips the dagger in her hands. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like your plan was to have your daughter fuck King Robb while he was too drugged to consent and then manipulate him into marrying her. Perhaps to preserve her honor? If it worked, you could send Lord Tywin information on the sly, while your daughter did her very best to conceive an heir, ensuring a victory for your family either way. Am I correct?”

The woman’s lips purse into a thin line. She nods. Lord Karstark spits heavily on the uncle’s boots just as Uncle Brynden growls under his breath. Dacey inches away from the Blackfish nervously. 

“It’s not a bad plan,” Lucy says after a moment’s consideration.

“Very clever,” Robb admits. “It almost worked. Almost. Would you like to know where you failed, Lady Jeyne, for your future endeavors?”

The girl whimpers and folds into herself.

“When women shake in my bed, it isn’t their hands and it isn’t from fear.”

The men explode into nervous laughter. Lucy Blackwood only rolls her eyes and scoffs, sharing a long suffering expression with Dacey. 

“In all seriousness, it wasn’t just your trepidation and fear that gave it away. You see Lady Sybell, you are not the only woman to offer your daughter’s virtue into Tywin Lannister’s service.” He chuckles at the shocked fury on her face. “Oh no, the first was his own kin. Joy Lannett of Lannisport. She was traveling with my camp under the guise of a healer. A competent one, it must be said. Lady Lannett did her duty well until her grisly end.”

Silence reigns. His men stare at him, some of their mouths gaping in disbelief. 

“We questioned her, Lucy and I, much longer than we questioned you. And then we killed her and left her body for the animals to feast on.” Robb leans forward, fixing Lady Sybell with an icy stare. “Your plan was clever, but it would have never worked. I am a Stark of Winterfell. If Tywin Lannister wants to play dirty, I’ll play dirty. I’ll make Daemon Targaryen look like a septon if that’s what he wants.”

It’s not what Robb wants. All he wants is to go home, but he’ll do it. He’ll do whatever he has to. Including this. 

“Does anyone doubt the guilt of Ser Rolph or Lady Sybell?”

Everyone replies in the negative. Robb sighs. He’s so tired and he has to deal with the fucking Greyjoys immediately after, then wake up the next morning and decide what to do until they hear about the Mountain and his men, and what to do when they do actually confront him. 

“I will take your heads at first light.”

“Please,” Lady Jeyne begs, her eyes swollen and red with tears. “Please, I beg you, have mercy.”

“This is my mercy,” Robb snaps. The temperature in the room plummets. “Be thankful that it was only me because had it been anyone else I would have thrown you to the wolves and smiled as they ate your liver. Are there any other questions?”

The three prisoners, all of them red-eyes and a ghastly shade of grey, shake their heads. 

“Then someone find a room I can talk to the Greyjoys in. And a different bedchamber while you’re at it, somewhere with a bigger window. This weather is stifling.”

* * *

Lucy, gods bless her, already has a room prepared. It looks out over the sea, where the Iron Victory awaits her captain. Robb brings Jon, Lord Tytos, and Lord Galbart Glover as advisors. Lord Victarion only has his niece and his nephew at either side. 

Robb can not decide if he likes Victarion Greyjoy. He doubts he’ll ever be able to. The Lord captain is a surprisingly calm man. Robb half expected a cruel Greatjon. Though he has a reputation for a fearsome temper, it does not seem to rise unprovoked. While intelligence is not his strongest suit, his niece certainly makes up for it. It is a harsh thought, but Robb cannot help thinking that Asha Greyjoy is everything Theon could be. 

They talk of the war for hours. They seem to approve of most of Robb’s plans, though Lord Victarion grudgingly admits that it his brother Euron who was the better strategist. Robb shrugs.

“The last thing I need is a magical Roose Bolton whispering in my ear.”

Lord Glover snorts. 

“Isn’t that what your salt wife is?” Asha Greyjoy asks. 

Theon laughs while Robb frowns, his face burning red when he realizes what she means. 

“Lady Lucienne is not my...salt wife. She is a friend and a noble lady. I would not dishonor her so. Nor is she half so cold as Roose Bolton.”

“I saw her smile once,” Theon muses. “I’ve never seen the Leech Lord smile.”

Jon huffs. “Greyjoy, I’ll pay you a hundred gold dragons to say that to his face.”

“You couldn’t pay me a thousand for it, Snow.” He frowns. “It’s Stark now, isn’t it?”

“I will always be Jon Snow.”

Robb ducks his head to hide his grin. Jon is much cleverer than he lets on, much like Father had been. 

“While we’re speaking of wives, we may as well get the discussion over with,” Lord Victarion says with a fierce glower. “All good alliances are forged in marriage. We need to join our houses and our kingdoms.”

 _Sansa, forgive me._

“Of course,” Robb agrees. “My sister-“

Theon’s eyes go as wide as saucers. Lady Asha- _Princess_ Asha, Robb reminds himself- cuts in without a care for courtesy or grace. Robb likes her all the more for it. 

“Why don’t you marry me, Warg King?” She asks. “I’m the daughter of a great house and now a king. I’m not some southern flower that will wilt under the first winds of winter. I wouldn’t mind if you keep your salt wife. Hells, I’ll probably be begging you for my own after a couple years of marriage.” She smiles prettily. “I’ll even share if you ask nicely.”

Robb stares. It’s incredibly rude, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He’s never been propositioned so bluntly, not even by the whores of Wintertown. Yet it all makes a dreadful amount of sense. He’d get his ships and she’d get a king, a man her own age that would never mistreat her. And the sharing. That would be agreeable. 

“I am betrothed to a Frey,” Robb says, and the words have never tasted so foul. 

Lord Victarion huffs. “The Freys are worthless vermin. We sail small vessels up the Green Fork and they’ll surrender in half a day.”

“Aye, but those vermin make up four thousand of my men.”

Princess Asha whistles. “So many?!”

“And they’re all probably fathered by Old Walder himself, the nasty git,” Theon says. 

“I can’t risk their support. Not yet. Not until Tywin Lannister is dead.” He glances at Jon and takes a deep breath. “My sister, Sansa, will not marry Joffrey. I will die before I let that happen. Theon knows her. They grew up together. I think some familiarity would do her good after her time in King’s Landing.”

Lord Victarion frowns as he mulls it over. “Fine. So long as she is untouched when we take her back.”

“Uncle,” Theon interrupts quietly, “Every house will be fighting tooth and nail for a princess with a bloodline like hers. We’d be a fool to turn down her brother.”

“A maidenhead is only a piece of skin,” Asha says, shrugging. “Wait a few months to make sure she’s not pregnant and be done with it. Gods know my brother won’t find a woman any other way.”

Jon snorts. 

“Is there anything else for tonight?” Robb asks. “I’d like to get as much sleep on a featherbed as I can.”

“I’ll trade out with Theon,” Asha says. “I want to come with you when you go to fight the Mountain. I’ve never seen a greenlander battle before.”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” her uncle says. “There’s no Drowned God to claim the bodies. The dead just pile up and fester.“

Robb shrugs. He doesn’t give a shit what she does. All he’s worried about is a warm bath and a soft bed. 

* * *

He’s just climbed out of the bath and into the bed when someone knocks at his door. These chambers are smaller, but they’ve got windows on both walls. It’s infinitely more comfortable. Even Grey Wind is content to spread out beside him, something he usually finds much too hot in castles. Though perhaps he senses that Robb needs him close now more than ever. 

Robb sighs at the stack of clothes on the chest of drawers. He hadn’t dressed. He’d only dried off and climbed into the bed naked. 

_Fuck it_ , he decides. If they’re going to interrupt his rest, they can deal with him like this. 

“Enter,” he calls. 

Robb sits up against the headboard and pulls the covers up to his waist for an illusion of decency. He immediately regrets every decision he’s made in the past five minutes when Lucy Blackwood strolls in his room. Her dark eyes scan the room quickly, lips quirking up at the mermaid statues and bottles of cosmetics. 

“Pink suits you, Your Grace,” she says, nodding at the gauzy canopy. “Shall I paint you like this for our sweet Roose?”

Robb laughs despite his efforts to remain stoic and intimidating.

“Aye, please do. The Freys will surely understand such a love match.”

Something in her changes, much like it had in the armory tent. Only this time she goes solemn and looks just as tired as he feels. 

“No, Robb, I don’t think they would.”

“No, probably not. Come on, Luce. Sit down and say what you came to say.”

Lucy, in true Lucy form, does not sit next to him as he intended. She does not even choose the vanity bench beside the bed. Instead, she walks around and shoves Grey Wind over enough to perch on the very edge of the mattress. Robb smirks. She likes to pretend she isn’t affected by him, but it’s times like these that reveal how she truly feels. He’ll have her one day. It’s only a matter of time. 

She takes a deep breath and looks him straight in the eye. His heart thuds like he’s some green boy. 

“I wanted to apologize for what I said in the armory that day. If I had known it happened like this....I assumed and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Robb eyes her speculatively. Some men might use her guilt to take what they want, to take what he knows she truly wants even if she won’t admit to herself. Eddard Stark raised him better than that, though. Catelyn Stark would hang him up by his balls for just thinking it. 

“You couldn’t have known,” he says. 

“I could,” she insists. “I knew you would be injured and I knew she would seduce you, but I shouldn’t have assumed you-“

“I fell for it, didn’t I?” He realizes, his mind whirring. “I married her to protect her and I lost the Freys for it.”

He knows he’s right by her silence and her sudden interest in Grey Wind’s fur. 

“And if Theon had taken Winterfell, Edmure had attacked Clegane, and the Freys abandoned me, I must have lost the war. That’s why the gods intervened.”

“No,” she says sharply, viciously. “They intervened because Walder Frey-“

“Don’t. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know how much I’m truly indebted to you.”

“But you’re not. It’s why I’m here, Robb. You don’t owe me anything.”

He shrugs. Neither of them are willing to compromise and he’s too tired to argue. 

“Stay with me,” he orders instead. 

“Robb-“

“Grey Wind can stay. We’ll be like a knight and his lady sleeping with a sword between them.”

“His sword didn’t take up two thirds of the bed.”

“Then Grey Wind can sleep in the floor.”

“Robb!”

He laughs, delighted at the sheer exasperation in her voice. She’s too annoyed to even blush, a true feat on his part. She usually blushes so easily with him. Only him. 

“You’d better go,” he says softly. “I’m too tired to hold myself back.”

She hesitates, her fingers still intertwined in Grey Wind’s fur. 

“Lucy...”

“I’m afraid,” she blurts. “I can’t tell it all to you yet. Not until the Mountain at least, but...Fuck.” She shoves a lock of pale hair behind her ear and fixes him with a deadly glower. “The man who mentored me mentored Euron Greyjoy. Only he saw what Euron Greyjoy was- or maybe Euron saw what he was- and left him out in the cold. It was cruel and wrong and I hate him for it, but I’m afraid that Euron won’t believe me.”

Robb leans forward and takes her hand in his. 

“He won’t touch you, Lucy. I won’t let him. Me, your father, your brother. None of-“

“I wanted to run away once. I was going to. I didn’t want anything to do with any of this. I was going to go to Essos. I figured he couldn’t reach me across the sea. But when I made it to the stables, there was a scream. And another. And then another. So I ran back to where they came from, all the way to that damn tree, and Alys, my baby sister, was there giggling at the shadowcat standing over her. One swipe of his paw and she’d be dead.” 

She peers into his eyes, tears glimmering in her own. 

“I’m afraid of Euron Greyjoy but I’m terrified of the Three Eyed Raven. I’m scared of what he’ll make me into. I don’t want to be like him, Robb. I don’t want to be like either of them. I’ve already changed so much.”

Grey Wind slips out from between them and Robb pulls her forward, settling them both back onto the pillows. He tucks her head under his chin and pulls her arm across his chest. 

“Robb,” she protests, trying to rise. 

He sighs up at the ridiculous canopy and tightens his arm around her waist. 

“We be of one blood, ye and I,” he reminds her. “Just as you have protected me, I will protect you. I will keep you Lucy and you will keep me Robb.”

“Robb, we-“

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

“But-“

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

It takes an eternity but she gradually gives in. Her breathing slows and the arm around his chest tightens as she burrows in closer. He falls asleep with a smirk on his face. 

  
He awakes in the middle of the night, suddenly cold. A tuft of hair scratches at his chest.

Robb likes to think he's a kind man, a just one, but he isn’t afraid to admit that he isn't an honorable one anymore. He cheats, slipping into Grey Wind to watch. 

Lucy is staring down at him, her long braid ghosting over his chest. Her eyes examine his wound, then trace the curve of his shoulder up to his neck, to his face. She studies him in silence, committing every line to memory. The expression on her is one he knows all too well. It’s the same one his Father used to wear when his mother was around, the same one Jon looks at Dacey with. 

He slips back into himself just as she lowers her head to his cheek, but he isn’t going to let her off this easy. He turns his head at the last moment, catching her lips with his. She gasps, trying to pull away, but Robb slips his hand around her the nape of her neck and refuses to let her go. 

She smells like leather, she smells _right_ , and she tastes like freedom. She tastes like watching the snows blanket the yard of Winterfell, like the frozen ground of the Wolfswood unyielding beneath his paws, like the breeze rustling the red leaves of the Heart Tree. She tastes like home. She is his home. 

They break apart panting. Lucy’s cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen. He reaches up to thumb at her bottom lip, then runs a finger down her nose. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he vows, his fingertips ghosting over her neck, “A gentleman is simply a patient wolf.”

Her breath catches and a slow, wicked smile pulls at his beard. Her eyes dart down to his mouth. Robb’s whole body tenses, anticipation and desire swirling in his gut. He's wanted this for so long.

The door crashes against the wall. Grey Wind rises, teeth showing. Robb throws Lucy back and pulls a dagger from under his pillow in one movement. 

Arya stares at them, her shoulders heaving and brows furrowed. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“What are you doing?!” 

She shakes herself out of her bewilderment. “There’s a rider that just got here. It’s the Mountain. He’s headed West.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘She smells of woodsmoke, not flowers’, what Cregan Stark said about his wife Alysanne Blackwood. 
> 
> Snake symbolism inspired by “Harriet Potter is...” by setepenre_set. One of my favorite fanfictions of all time. It’s a one-shot, so you should definitely check it out. 
> 
> But the actual sources are:  
> -The farmer and the viper, one of Aesop’s fables (there are variations of it in pretty much every culture known to man, so I figured it could fit in here easily).  
> -the jungle book by Rudyard Kipling. It doesn’t fit as smoothly, but mowgli/kaa mirrored Robb/Lucy so well (on accident believe it or not) that I couldn’t resist adding it. (BTW Kaa the snake never attacks mowgli in the book like he did in the cartoon. It was changed because Disney didn’t think people would want to see a snake as a good character.)
> 
> I’ve been really stressed out lately and this story has been a lot of fun and a nice bit of escapism for me. I can’t punch people in real life but I can let Robb punch some Lannisters. Thank you for reading it!


	3. Act II: The Westerlands, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to book canon, the Mountain has 300 men, but he also manages to fuck almost every castle in the riverlands up, so I gave him way more men because it would be impossible otherwise. Honestly, I wonder if GRRM wanted us to infer that Tywin gave him more men as the war dragged along.

Lucy ignores him, of course. She acts as though she’s simply another advisor, though it’s obvious to everyone that nothing could be further from the truth. Robb is done pretending. He doesn’t bother hiding it. He’s never wanted anything more than he wants her. He lets his eyes follow her across camp, lets his mind wander when she delivers reports. So when he announces she and the most elite of her Raven’s Teeth will ride ahead to the Mummer’s Ford, the entire war council stops and stares as if he’s gone mad.

Lucy, to her credit, only glances down at the map. Robb doesn’t bother looking away from where her teeth cut into her bottom lip as she bites it thoughtfully.

There’s a sudden dull pain in his foot. Robb turns to his left, where Lucas Blackwood is scowling at him fiercely.

“Outside, please, Your Grace,” he grits out.

Robb sighs and waves his hand, motioning for Lord Tytos to follow. It’s been a long time coming. It would have happened sooner if they weren’t dealing with the fucking Mountain. As it is, they’ve been too busy preparing for the battle to let personal conflicts arise. This, however, seems to have been the last straw for Lucas.

It’s a warm night. The stars are bright, but the bugs are relentless. Robb slaps at a mosquito as he sits on a nearby barrel. Lucas and his father tower over him with venomous eyes and crossed arms. Robb has to hide his grin with a cough. He’s seen Lucy do the same a thousand times.

‘ _What the_ fuck _was that, Robb_?!’

_‘Are you trying to get us all killed?!’_

_‘The fuck are you smiling at?! This is serious, Robb.’_

“Robb,” Lucas begins, “you’re my king but she’s my sister. We need to discuss this before it goes any further.”

Robb leans forward with his elbows on his knees and gestures for them to continue. 

“You’re a king.” Lord Tytos says bluntly. 

“I know. Trust me, I know." He massages at his temples and sighs heavily. "Sansa got involved with Joffrey and now she’s a hostage in King's Landing promised to Theon of all people. Trust me, I _know_ , but...it’s different.”

“Different,” Lord Tytos deadpans. 

“I know it sounds stupid. I know. It’s just....It isn’t as easy as slipping under his skin and coming back. It’s tempting. Dangerous. No man can ever hope to be as free as a wolf is when he is hunting under the moon.” Robb peers up at the Blackwoods. “No woman can be as free as a serpent is when she basks in the sun.”

Lord Tytos narrows his eyes imperceptibly. 

“I promise you this, my lords. The moment she tells me to stop, I’ll stop, but I’ll not give her up until then.”

“Until you send her off against the Mountain, you mean,” Lucas counters.

“The North comes before everything,” Robb says, hearing Lucy say it in tandem. It is a mantra that he repeats to himself again and again. “The North comes before me. It comes before my sisters and my brothers. It comes before her. So, yes, Lucas, I will give her up for the North, but only the North. No man will come between us if she does not wish it.”

Lucas sighs and looks up at the bright sky. His father, however, is completely focused on Robb. 

“And if it is something more than a man? Something worse?”

Robb holds his gaze. Desperation tinges his words, the same sort of fear that Lucy had reeked of in his bed. 

“Euron Greyjoy is a man, Lord Tytos. Nothing more and nothing less.”

The Lord of Raventree Hall is not impressed. “There are worse things than Euron Greyjoy and Tywin Lannister in the world, Young Wolf,” he says, and Robb frowns as he remembers that great, terrible tree looming over him so long ago. 

The Freys have the audacity to corner him not an hour later. It might have been amusing if it wasn’t so annoying. Gods know Theon will double over will laughter when hears of it. 

Robb has migrated from his barrel to an upturned crate. His men sense his introspective mood and leave him to it. He sits, half in shadow, and watches them drink and laugh. It’s nights like these that fill him with dread and guilt. How many men has he stolen this from? How many more will he send to their deaths?

“Your Grace.”

Ser Steffon Frey approaches with three of his kinsmen. None of them look alike. None of them act alike. Even Sansa and Jon have the same long nose and serious countenance. 

“Ser Steffon. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Robb does not grace them with his full attention. He watches Dacey slip off with Jon Umber, watches Lucas and Patrek down another tankard, watches Jon Snow watch it all. Robb almost smiles; he’s being just as sullen and broody as his brother. 

“Your Grace, we come on behalf of our kin.”

“Which kin might that be? You have so many.”

They shuffle around until one of them says, “Your our bride, Your Grace.”

“My bride. What of her?”

“You dishonor her, Your Grace.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“Lady Lucienne. You-“

Hearing her name on his tongue is too much. 

“I do not have a bride, Ser,” he snaps. “I have sworn no vows, unlike you, who has a wife yet spends every night with sweet, curly-haired Myra from the Red Fork.”

Robb finally stands so that he can give them his full attention. All three men jump back in alarm at the massive snake curled around his torso. He reaches up to rub at the smooth underside of her chin, smiling when she hisses contentedly. 

“Look to your own marriage before you start pestering me about my future one, Ser Frey.”

Ghost lumbers up behind them as quiet as his namesake. The three Freys are completely unaware of his approaching presence until his hot breath is on their necks. One of them yelps, the other pisses himself a bit, and Ser Steffon nearly prostrates himself at Robb’s feet. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course not, Ser,” Robb agrees. 

They nearly trip over themselves to escape. Robb chuckles to himself before going to join his brother at one of the campfires. The small crowd cheers at the sight of their king, most of them too drunk to care about the black serpent writhing around his waist. Robb takes a tankard from Pyp and raises it high. 

“To Ghost!” He toasts. He drains his tankard. 

Jon smirks and empties his own. They drink and drink until the next thing Robb knows, his head weighs as much as the Mountain, his tongue is thick and dry, and a heavy boot is pressing into his bare shoulder.

He grunts and flops over. Lucy is towering over him with her arms crossed in an eerie litany of her brother and father. 

“Get up, Stark. I have to pack my bedroll.”

Robb grunts noncommittally, forcing his mind to take stock of his surroundings. He’s still in his trousers and boots, which is just as much a relief as it is a disappointment. It’s too dark to be day, yet the camp is rising and packing around them. But why are they packing? He fights against his swollen tongue and the pounding ache in his temple to work out the answer. Eventually, it comes to him: she’s leaving to scout around the Mummer’s Ford. For his battle. Against the fucking Mountain. It’s part of the reason succumbed to the sweet mercy of watery ale and mead. 

“Up, Robb.”

He yawns and stretches languidly, relishing how her eyes track the movement. She’s very careful not to stray below his waist. Struck by sudden inspiration, he holds up a hand in a silent request for support. 

“No.”

“Help me.”

“My men are waiting. I don’t have time for you to drunkenly fondle me some more.”

He drops his hand and laces his fingers over his stomach. He desperately wishes he could recall this drunken fondling.

“I’m a king,” he says, closing his eyes. “Men wait for me.”

“Well I’m not,” she snaps. 

Pain erupts on his thigh, dangerously close to his groin. He very nearly squeals and bolts upright. 

“Fucking hells, woman! I’ll get up. There’s no need to crush my balls!”

She rolls her eyes, shoulders a saddle bag, and disappears through the canvas flap. 

“That’s treason!” He calls after her. 

“Bring my bedroll!”

Eventually, Robb forces himself to rise. He bundles up the cot and blankets and grabs her other satchel. He’s halfway out the tent when he realizes he isn’t dressed. 

Outside, he startles to find her standing near the tent. Two boys wait nearby to pack her things and stow then in Blackwood’s caravan. Robb has pages to do these sorts of things. He hadn’t even considered who does it for her. 

“Do you need a squire?” He wonders. The more he considers it, the more he realizes how foolish and inconsiderate he’s been. “Does Jon need a squire?”

“Jon has Arya,” she says, making her way through the organized chaos of the camp. “And I have those little squirts for mundane tasks. The one with all the freckles is a girl. I think her mum’s one of the followers.”

Robb frowns. “That’s not much help.”

“We’re not kings,” she reminds him. “I train with my men and I counsel you, but that’s about it. Same as Jon, I’d say.”

“No. Jon is always with me. The men need to respect him and learn to obey him, no matter what his last name is.”

She goes oddly quiet, her brows furrowed in contemplation. They carry on in silence until they reach her steed, a deep brown gelding chosen for his easy temperament and dull coloring. All of the Raven’s Teeth have acquired dark horses. Any white strips or spots are coated in mud or grease. They have also been ordered to dress in the darkest greens and browns and blacks to blend in with the forest.

Grey Wind sidles up along them on silent paws. A few of the horses whinny and stamp, but Lucy’s men are too disciplined to fidget, nor are they surprised. The direwolf flicks his tail lazily, golden eyes fixed impatiently on the trees beyond. He is ready to leave. To hunt. 

“Very well,” Lucy says. “I shall make my reports to Grey Wind an hour after sunset."

Robb studies her pale brows, her fathomless eyes, her wide lips. A few wisps of hair have fallen out of her thick plaits. It’s always braided back or curled around itself in a knot. He’s always wanted to see how long it is or if it feels as soft as it looks. 

“I’ve never seen your hair down.”

Lucy is bewildered enough to pause climbing into the saddle. She lowers her foot to the ground and frowns up at him. 

“I think about it often. I think about how it would look in my hands, or splayed on my pillow, or darkened in the hot springs of Winterfell.”

She stares up at him for a moment, then shakes her head and smiles. 

“You’re one smooth motherfucker, Robb Stark.”

Robb darts forward and covers her smile with his own. Initially, he meant it to be a quick kiss. Something chaste and sweet, something that wouldn’t embarrass her in front of her soldiers. Robb and Lucy are not chaste and sweet. He is a wolf ruling from under the trees and she is the snake curled around the branch above him, protecting him as he protects their woods. Robb drags her close with one hand on her hip and the other curled around her neck. She doesn’t push him off until the men around them begin to whistle and cheer. 

He squeezes her ankle after she climbs into the saddle.

“Be careful,” he says. “Only take a risk if you are sure you will be alive for me to yell at you for it.”

Lucy huffs. “You needn’t worry about that. I’m too slither-in to become a martyr. Now, goodbye Robb.”

He doesn’t know what it means to be slither-in but he can appreciate the sentiment all the same. It must be a concept she picked up from Mittens. Gods know he’s picked up all sorts of strange habits from Grey Wind. 

“Goodbye, love,” he says. 

She startles, her eyes widening at the endearment, before she kicks her horse into a gallop without another word. Robb steps back to let her unit follow. He stays there long after she disappears, trying to tell himself that he has not sent her to her death. 

* * *

Robb is exhausted and aching. Blood and sweat blur his vision, yet he cannot remove his helm to wipe it away. Dead Lannisters and their horses lie half sunken in the mud. Dead northerners too, but it will be the death of him if he thinks on them. 

An unnatural shadow catches his gaze. A dark cloud of arrows sweeps in a strange arc from the right. Lucy chose the setting well. Clegane’s men are caught between Uncle Edmure to the north, Jon to the east, Robb to the south, and the river to west. It was not difficult to lure him into their clutches; the Mountain is not a man know for his rationale. Lucy’s archers have spent most of the battle running behind the the northern armies and picking Clegane’s off bit by bit. 

It’s the worst fighting he’s seen in moons, but it’s no Whispering Wood. He’ll never forget that night. He’ll never forget Jaime Lannister charging at him like a mad demon from the deepest hell. 

This is nothing like it. The sun is bright to the point of blinding on the steel armor. There is room for dueling instead of killing. It is one of Sansa’s tourney melees, an unending line of contenders determined to cut Robb down. None of them are Jaime Lannister, but with every throat he slits, with every lung and heart he pierces, Robb knows the Mountain will be waiting just beyond. 

Nymeria howls somewhere on his left. Grey Wind picks up the call almost instantaneously. Robb can imagine Ghost standing with his head thrown back in one of his own silent howls. As if in response, a horn blows three long calls from the right. 

“REGROUP!” Robb bellows. “TO GHOST!”

Grey Wind runs off immediately, leaving Robb and his men struggling to catch up. They are too over-excited to complain. Gregor Clegane is surrounded. Tywin Lannister is going to loose his infamous butcher to the Starks. The wolves are going to take down a mountain. 

They arrive to find Jon waiting impatiently. His armor is splattered and blood drips from Longclaw onto the mud. The men under his command gaze at him in half terror and half awe. Robb ignores them, rushing over to tousle his hair and pull him close. Jon has a fever in his eyes that almost makes Robb take a step back. 

“He’s mine, Robb,” he snarls. “He murdered them. He is mine.”

Robb swallows thickly. This is not his solemn, gentle brother. This is a dragon, a wolf. This is a king born of a Stark and a Targaryen. Robb nods slowly, but not hesitantly. He can give this to him. The men need to learn to obey him anyway in case the worst comes to pass. Winterfell may pass to Bran, but Jon will be king. 

“On your command,” Robb says. 

While Jon barks orders and gets the men into formation, Robb centers himself. He calls for Grey Wind and digs his hands in his sticky fur. He’s never done this. Lucy had winced when he asked her about it, then expressly forbade him from even trying without her at his side. She would have never mentioned it if he hadn’t thought of it. 

She’s going to kill him. 

“Jon.”

As Jon strides over, Robb notices he moves like a slinking shadowcat. He moves like Jaime Lannister. 

“Jon, was Lucy unharmed?”

Jon stares at him with something between disdain and bewilderment. “Robb-“

“Was she unharmed?”

“Aye, but-“

“Send for her. I’ll need her after this.”

Jon’s face smooths out and his grey eyes- Father’s eyes- flick from him to Grey Wind. When he says Robb’s name, it isn’t scornful as it was moments before. Now, it is pleading, hesitant, fearful. 

“Robb...”

“If they want something to fear, I’ll give them something to fear. Send for Lucy.”

He doesn’t wait for Jon’s compliance. He turns to Grey Wind, stares into his eyes, and digs deep in his chest. He tugs on their bond, tugs and tugs, and just when he is about to join Grey Wind’s mind, he breaks the bond open with a gentle touch. 

Grey Wind bounds in in a feral surge. Smells, scents, tastes. Memories. Memories of running through the forest at night, of nipping at Nymeria’s heels, of Lucy’s fingers pulling burs off his back. Memories of Robb with a milk cloth at Winterfell, of Robb swinging a sword at his side, of Robb drinking by the campfire. 

Robb staggers under the onslaught. It is almost like seeing through two sets of eyes. Almost, yet not quite. It is smelling shit and blood, tasting fear and lust. It is hearing a boy pray nearly a league away and smelling the piss in a man’s pants across the field. 

“Robb.”

Robb turns to his packmate, to his brother. His thoughts are detached, half-sensical ramblings: Robb is king. Jon is king. There cannot be two kings. It is the way of the wild, the law of the forest. 

It is Jon’s turn to take a step back. 

Just as Ghost lumbers forward, his fur stained pink, a man lunges in front of Robb. He smells familiar. Like leather and woodsmoke. _Father_ , one thought says. _Tytos_ , another corrects. 

“Son, that is your brother,” Tytos says. “He is not your enemy. Those men in front of us are your enemy. They killed your father. They took your sister. They mean to take your lands.”

“The North,” Robb remembers. “Snow and stone.”

Moonlight and red leaves. 

Tytos nods, his shrewd eyes darting between Robb’s. “Yes. Snow and stone.” He looks over his shoulder. “Call for it, Prince. He’ll not hold without Luce.”

Jon does not bellow out a command. He does not raise his sword. He only glances at Ghost. The three direwolves throw their heads back in a harrowing howl, one eerily silent, before they set off at a run. The northern armies charge behind them with a thunderous roar.  
It only takes one kill before Robb loses himself. 

He doesn't come to until white hot knives stab into his mind. Robb clutches at his temples as Grey Wind whines. The sharp points prick and poke, chipping away at his skull. Grey Wind yelps and throws himself down to rub his head in the mud. 

As soon as the attack halts, Robb growls and twirls, his blade slicing through the air. It rests against the throat of a handsome woman with a white bow slung over her shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” she snarls, shoving the sword away with her bracer. “I did not die just to be killed by another stupid boy. You throw him out this very instant.”

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know where he is. He only knows that he is king, alpha, and no one can take that from him. No one can take anything from him. 

Robb’s lip pulls back over his teeth. “No.”

“If I don’t get to lose myself to my beast, you don’t either. Throw Grey Wind out this very instant.” 

“No.”

“Fine,” she snarls. 

Something in Robb stirs at her anger. The longer he’s with her, the more befuddled he gets. Before he can try to sort through those thoughts- Why are there so many? Can’t they just go back to the killing?- the knives attack again. Burning, deadly. An invisible arm stabbing him again and again. Grey Wind cries and yowls. In a blaze of panic, Robb attempts to shove himself into his wolf. Instead, Grey Wind leaves him. 

The wild storm in Robb’s chest goes out all at once. He sucks in a desperate lungful of air. It’s as though he’s stepped outside of a smoky feast into a cold winter’s day. His heart- his soul- has never felt so light. His body, however, is heavy and molten. Exhaustion weighs on his shoulders and legs and all of his injuries are catching up at once. If someone were to attack, there is no way he could defend himself. He wouldn’t even be able to warg in his current state. 

A rough hand grips his chin. Lucienne tugs his head up and peers deep into his eyes. He can’t do anything other than stare back. 

“We be of one blood, ye and I,” she murmurs. 

Robb licks his lips to clean off the blood, then startles when he realizes what he's doing. He is not Grey Wind. He does not rip into men with his teeth. How long were they together? How long have they been fighting? 

_What have I done?_

"Who are you?" She asks.

"I am Robb," he says. His voice is hoarse and his mouth is full of cotton. "I am Robb and you are Lucy."

"And what are you?" 

"I am yours." 

Lucy blinks. "Well, that's not what I was aiming for, but alright." 

She spins on her heel. 

“Get him a horse. He needs a maester,” she orders. Robin Flint limps off to obey.

Beyond her, soldiers patrol the field of corpses. Occasionally, one will shout for a healer. More often, their swords and axes rise and fall to give mercy. Closer, a string of mangled bodies leads to Robb. None of them are in one piece. If he did not slice off their heads and hands, it appears Grey Wind ripped them limb from limb. Robb swallows thickly and turns around, only to double over and hurl at what he sees. 

A massive man, a mountain of a man, lies face down in the mud. His throat is cut open to the bone, one arm has been chewed off above the elbow, and the opposite foot is nowhere to be found. There are other, bloodier wounds dispersed throughout his mangled armor, including one gaping hole inches from a hunk of meat in the dirt. Jon Snow is standing over him like a northman from the Age of Heroes. Blood pours from a cut on his brow, creating a morbid, dichotomous mask. 

_Ice and Fire_.

"Jon," Robb rasps. He begins to stumble over to his brother. It feels as though he is trudging through three feet of snow. "Jon." 

Jon does not look up until Robb has an arm thrown around his shoulders. It's more for his own sake than any sort of affection. Still, he raises a gauntleted hand to swipe at the bloody mask. It smears into his sweat-soaked curls.

"You're bleeding." 

Jon’s eyes are bright against the red when he pulls away. "If you ever try to do that again, I'm chaining you both up.'

Robb tries to scoff, but he only manages to cough and gag. 

"It's not funny, Robb. You'll get yourself killed." 

"I'm fine." 

"You're not," he snaps, rounding quick enough to nearly knock Robb over. "He hit you hard enough for me to hear your ribs crack and you didn't even feel it. Never again, Robb. I swear it. If I even think you're going to let him warg you, I'm-"

"Your Grace!" A pubescent boy with mousy hair waves the reins of a dappled mare nervously. "Your Grace, the Queen says you're to see a maester.”

Laughter bubbles out of Robb, causing his chest and stomach to sear with pain. It’s impossible to hold back. Even Jon quirks one side of his lips up. Robb clamors over to the boy and slaps one of his shoulders. He buckles under the weight. 

“Son, I’ll let you take a ride on Grey Wind if you say that to her face.”

* * *

Robb’s got two cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, three dislocated fingers, two pulled muscles, and a concussion but he’s never felt better. When the pain starts to fight through the poppy, he smiles as big as he can and says, “We killed the fucking Mountain.”

He tells everyone he sees. He announces it to all who come to his tent, no matter if it’s their first time or the fifth. When his council arrives the next night, he boasts of his glory each time they enter his bright pavilion. 

“I helped kill the Mountain,” he informs Greatjon. 

Lord Umber smiles down at him with pride and amusement. Lying on a chaise in a war council is rather emasculating, but there’s nothing to be done for it. A couple of week’s rest is a small price to pay for good health. The maester warned him that overexertion could lead to a crippling injury. 

Uncle Brynden sighs. “We know, Robb. We know.”

Lucy is the next to come through. Under her Blackwood cloak, she wears a simple black dress. He’s never seen her in anything other than jerkins and trousers. The gown emphasizes her waist and shows more of her cleavage than he could have ever hoped to see.

“You look beautiful, Lady Blackwood.”

“You look terrible, King Robb.”

“You should see the bruises!” With all the giddiness of a proud child, he lifts his shirt to show how his skin is mottled and black from armpit to hip. Sansa might even have found the fade of black to purple and blue pretty. “I got them from the Mountain. You know, when I helped kill him.”

She is not exasperated or annoyed as he expected. Instead, her mouth is agape and she takes an aborted step his way. She freezes at the last moment, her hand clenching and unclenching at her side. 

“Are you well? Truly?”

“Of course I’m well. I helped-“

“There’s no internal bleeding?”

“The maester didn’t think so.”

“He didn’t think so.” 

“I’m perfectly fine, Lucy.”

“Those are nasty, lad,” the Greatjon says hesitantly. “I’ve not seen that on dead men.”

Robb rolls his eyes and shoves his top down. “It’s fine, I swear it. The maester says I can’t do anything for a moon’s turn, but I’ll heal well enough.”

Thankfully, Jon and Lord Bolton arrive, silencing their fussing. The Leech Lord might have his eccentricities, but at least he isn’t one to nag like an old housewife. They all arrange themselves around Robb in a semi-circle. The youngest- Jon, Asha, and Luce- lower themselves on the floor to leave the seating for the eldest.

The Blackfish is the first to speak. 

“Right, well, if we speak of our latest victory, we’ll never hear the end of it from our king, so I propose we move on to the next order of business.”

“Is he still taking milk of the poppy?” Jon asks warily.

“His head’s just clear enough for this,” Maege assures him. 

Jon looks skeptical, but he acquiesces all the same. Robb fights back a scoff. The poppy hasn’t affected him all that much. Can’t he just be a green boy for once? They all grew up hearing tales of the ferocity of the Mountain. Is it really so uncouth to be proud of bringing him to the end? Surely Jon has even deigned to allow himself a smile. 

“Lord Mallister’s envoy to the Reach has returned,” Lord Bolton announces. “Renly Baratheon is dead. His men accuse a wench in his kingsguard, but there are rumors pertaining to Stannis’s red priestess.”

“It was the red woman,” Lucy reveals. “She’s a shadowbinder from Asshai. She used Stannis’s seed to create some sort of smoke demon to assassinate Renly.”

Everyone stares at her in horror. Robb can’t decide if it’s the news itself or flippant way of delivering it. The things she’s seen must be truly terrible if something so deplorable is a common thing. 

“You didn’t see fit to tell us this until now?!” the Greatjon booms. 

Half the room cringes away, but Lucy only shrugs. 

“She wasn’t a threat until now. Shouldn’t be for a few more moons. Stannis needed his brother gone first. Now he needs the Iron Throne if he wants to call himself a king. I take it the Tyrells declined our offer?”

Lord Bolton nods. 

“I figured. I saw her tell Littlefinger she wants to be ‘the Queen’. Even if she did marry Robb, she would have tried to twist and warp him into a man that fought a war for her to rule behind the Iron Throne.”

Disgust pools in Robb’s stomach. He will never understand why so many people have killed and died to be king. He’s only King in the North and he already feels like an aged man. Six more kingdoms would have him dead in a year. 

“So what will the Tyrells do now?” Maege asks. 

Lucy toys with the end of her braid. “The Tyrells assisted the Lannisters against Stannis Baratheon’s attack on King’s Landing. Sansa is set aside so that Margaery may become queen, but Lady Olenna and Littlefinger poison him at their wedding.”

“And what happens to Sansa?” Jon demands. 

Lucy cringes. Robb curses. He sits up, ignoring the pain rushing through his body, and claws for his wineglass.

“I’ve sent her a couple of ravens,” Lucy says. “I don’t know if she’ll heed my words. She may think they’re another Lannister trick.”

“If she does?” Robb asks. 

“Then a trusted man will escort her to either our camp or to the Martells.”

A sudden fury, a rage smelling of wet fur and yellowing leaves, rises in Robb’s chest. He chucks his glass across the tent. Maege has to duck out of its trajectory. 

“You’ve sent my sister from one captor to another?! This one even further beyond our reach?!”

Lucy raises a brow, thoroughly unimpressed. “The Dornish don’t hurt little girls. She may be a hostage, but she’ll at least be safer than she ever will be with a Lannister. ”

“If they’ve hurt her I’ll send them Jaime Lannister piece by piece!”

“You will not. If you hurt him Cersei will goad her son into torturing Sansa in a way too horrible for the Mad King to dream up.”

“I’m going to kill them. I’m going to feel their flesh rip under my teeth before this is over.”

An icy silence descends on the tent. Jon and Lucy are the only ones to meet his gaze. His brother nods in agreement, while Lucy sighs wearily. 

“We can’t do anything about Sansa yet. We need to focus on what we can do. The quicker we win this war, the sooner we’ll have her back.”

Asha Greyjoy speaks up for the first time. She’s spent most of the meeting watching them all with sharp eyes. Again, Robb is struck by just how capable a woman she is. Much more worthy of a crown than any Frey could be, though not as....

No. He does not trust himself to think of Lucy that way. He can only restrain himself so much. 

“Why not ally with the Dornish? They hate the Lannisters as much as you do.”

“They’re too far away,” Robb explains. 

“And we rebelled against their Queen,” Uncle Brynden adds. 

“Did we?” Maege counters. “We did not sanction the murder of Elia and her children. We rode south for vengeance, just as we do now. I do not doubt that Ned Stark would have allied with the Dornish had Prince Rhaegar’s family lived. The Throne was their’s by rights.”

“Send them Lorch,” Jon says. Everyone turns to stare at him. He is a dangerous version of Father, death and grace in his somber countenance. “Send them Lorch and Clegane’s body with an envoy. Tell them...tell them we regret not delivering the Mountain alive, but they may take comfort in knowing that it was Rhaenys and Aegon’s little brother that helped end his life.”

Robb giggles at the pavilion’s sudden silence. His advisors are wary, almost fearful, at the thought of another Targaryen running loose. Asha Greyjoy, the poor soul, looks as though she is doing complicated arithmetic in her head. 

“Are you sure, Jon?” Lucy asks, reaching for his hand. She squeezes it and rubs her thumb over his knuckles. Robb fights back a ridiculous surge of envy. “We would not ask it of you unless you are certain that it will bring you peace.”

Roose Bolton shoots her a glance that displays his clear disagreement. Robb catches his eye. The North comes before everything and everyone. 

“I don’t want the Iron Throne,” Jon shrugs. “I’ll melt it down before I ever take it. I’ll be Jon Targaryen of some small castle in the North. Maybe even of the Wall.”

A wide grin nearly splits Asha Greyjoy’s face in two. “I can’t decide if you’re a fucking idiot or the smartest man alive.”

“Why not both?” Robb asks. 

The war is planned even as Robb’s grip on reality wavers. Perhaps Jon was right. Robb and Sansa never could tolerate milk of the poppy like Jon and Arya. He follows the conversation sluggishly. The Northern Armies will continue westward slowly, allowing the men time to recuperate and the Dornish time to reply. Then, they will strike at Lannisport. 

They will take away everything Tywin Lannister holds dear. 

The thought stays with him as the night goes on. Eventually, just as the council is about to take their leave, Robb waves them back. 

“My mother promised me we would take everything they hold dear,” he muses aloud. “Jaime Lannisters is what Lord Tywin wants the most. If we had Sansa, we could send his pretty head to King’s Landing.”

Maege Mormont narrows her eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

“Stannis is going to lay siege to King’s Landing, correct?”

“Yes, but-“

“All sorts of things could happen in a siege.”

He catalogs all of their reactions: Roose Bolton’s twitching brow, Greatjon’s grin, Jon’s determined frown, Lucy’s worried lip biting. He has to tear his gaze away from her. Milk of the poppy, indeed. 

“Someone send for Arya,” Robb orders. “She knows the city better than anyone. And find the nastiest sons of bitches we’ve got. I want someone clever, quick, and ruthless.”

Uncle Brynden sneers and crosses his arms. “Give me a couple of trouts and flayed men, Your Grace, and I’ll have her back before you know it.”

“If you do this,” Lucy cuts in, her gaze fierce, “you cannot be caught by Stannis. There is power in king’s blood, triply so in a maiden princess with magic in her veins. Slitting her throat would be a kindness.”

“You need not worry, lass. I’ll-“

“And you must not, under any circumstances, take her to the Vale. I know you-“

“I remember your warnings about Baelish.” He spits heavily on the ground. “I know what I’m doing, girl. I’m not some green knight on the hunt for glory.”

Lucy winces, realizing that he has taken offense. She’s gotten better about showing deference with Robb, but her disregard for manners and niceties will have to change if she’s to-

No. He mustn’t think of her like that. He is betrothed. 

“...to worry,” Uncle Brynden is saying. “Though I’ll not say no to a raven escort on the way back.”

She nods. “I’ll send a dozen men out after you and ask the gods to keep an eye out. With any luck, we can guide them to you like we did with Arya and Gendry.”

“If that’s all, I suggest we move this into the war tent,” Maege says, her voice brimming with amusement. “Our feared Warg King is drooling.”

Robb startles upright. He blinks several times to fight through the heavy fog of exhaustion. He hadn't even realized he was falling asleep.

“Go ahead “ Lucy says. “I’ll stay with him. Arya will be of more help to you than I can.”

With that clear dismissal, they begin to exit in twos and threes. It isn't until Jon disappears that Robb realizes he hasn’t been alone with her since the battle. She must sense his hesitance, because a slow smirk spreads across her pinks lips. In a surge of cowardice, he reaches under the couch where the maester stashed the dreamwine. He chugs half a flask in one go, chuckling to himself as he sinks into oblivion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished my master’s degree!!!! So now I’ll have a lot more time to writing. You can expect more updates in my ASOIAF stories, and maybe even my Harry Potter ones. 
> 
> ———————
> 
> I meant to have the Westerlands be a two parter, but this chapter got unwieldy in length so I decided to split it up.
> 
> Btw most of my chapter notes are “euron being a little shit just to be a little shit”


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